Pokemon Fusion
by Torcinator
Summary: Five years after the events of Pokemon Black and White 2, mysterious disappearances have been plaguing Unova. Cecil Westwood, a journalist for the Castelia Times, is sent to investigate, but gets wrapped up in something much twisted than he could have possibly imagined. Will contain graphic and disturbing imagery.


It was a normal day in Humilau City. Its eccentric residents reveled in their lavish lifestyles, the sun reflected off the calm and clear waters; it was a typical picturesque day. A man in a black jacket exited the Marine Tube and pulled a recorder out of his pocket. The man brought the device to his mouth, pressed a red button on it, and spoke in a low voice, "Day 3, 2:47 P.M., Cecil Westwood of the Castelia Times speaking. I've arrived in Humilau City. My informant wants to meet in Giant Chasm at 3:00 P.M., so I've got to hurry." He took his thumb off of the recording button before breaking into a run, his disheveled brown hair dancing atop his head. He pushed through the crowds of tourists on the grassy hill before descending the stairs of the boardwalk, searching the area for the entrance to Route 22. He broke into a full sprint, pushing pedestrians aside as he tried to navigate the crowded walkways.

Cecil stopped at the beginning of the tall grass and reached into his coat, pulling out a beige spray can with a Pokeball on the side. "I don't have time to waste with wild Pokemon," he stated, quickly spraying every inch of his body with the Max Repel before tossing it away. He quickly resumed his sprint. His pace had to slow when he came to the catwalks, going too quickly would surely make him lose his balance. On the third catwalk, Cecil spotted the entrance to Giant Chasm and immediately jumped down, making a run for the entrance. He glanced at the face of his Pokétch. _"2:55, better pick up the pace"_ , he mentally noted, breaking into a sprint once the staircase was in sight. It was a straight shot down the staircase to the chasm once he got to it; he started down the stairs, taking them two, then three at a time. His momentum carried him through the exit, leading him to the chasm itself.

Several rings of dead trees immediately came to Cecil's attention. The place looked virtually untouched since Team Plasma's frigate took off 5 years ago, although a heavily worn path was a new addition. Cecil pulled out his recorder again, pressing his thumb against the button. "Day 3, 2:59 P.M., Cecil Westwood speaking. I'm in the chasm and searching for my informant." His eyes scanned the immediate area. "No sign of them as of yet…" he trailed off. A figure stepped out from behind a tree. "Found them," he said, releasing his grip on the button and putting the recorder back in his pocket. He turned to face the figure. "What's the password?" he asked, moving his hand over the only Pokeball on his belt. The figure slowly approached Cecil slowly, although still too far away to make out any of their features. "What's the password?" he repeated, taking the Pokeball off his belt and tossing it up and down. After 10 seconds of silence, he repeated, "I said-"

"Spore," the figure interrupted, extending their arm. They were now close enough to make out. Although a heavy trench coat covered most of their features, their face was unobstructed and decidedly male. Orange bangs covered their entire forehead, stopping just above their eyes.

 _"They look oddly familiar,"_ mused Cecil, _"but I've got bigger concerns right now."_ "Wrong," he snapped. He pressed the button on his Pokeball and threw it. "Go, Kirsty!" he yelled. A Gardevoir popped out of the ball, turned to smile at Cecil, and then turned to face the mysterious person. "Who the hell are you?" Cecil demanded.

"I wasn't talking to you," the figure responded. His expression contorted into a wicked smirk.

"What?" Cecil asked. His gaze wandered around until he noticed several Pokeball-looking patterns at his and Kirsty's feet. His eyes widened and, before he could say another word, clouds of spores filled the air around him. "Dammit, it was a setup!" he yelled. The effect was immediate; a soft tingling sensation started in his face, and the sensation soon spread to the rest of his body. His body felt heavier and heavier with every second, no matter how he tried to fight it. With his blurring vision, he saw Kirsty's frail form collapse in front of him. With the last of his strength, he called the Gardevoir back to her Pokeball. He fell to the ground, his legs no longer able to support him. As his consciousness fled, the last thing he saw was his assailant standing over him.

Cecil's eyes fluttered open. Though his vision was blurry, he could make out one thing easily: Bars. Metal ones. This sight made the trainer to snap to attention and quickly take in his surroundings. Concrete walls were the only other things that greeted him, however. "What the hell is this?" Cecil yelled. He moved to get up, but a pain in his wrists stopped him. Moving his eyes down to the location of the pain, he discovered the source: Handcuffs.

"I w-wanna go home," a voice bawled. Cecil looked past the bars of his cell to see an identical cell. In it was a small figure with their head buried in their knees and their arms wrapped around their legs. The irregular intervals of the rise and fall of their back indicated heavy sobbing.

"It's gonna be okay," Cecil assured. "What's your name?" he asked in an attempt to take the person's mind off of their situation.

Their sobbing petered out, and they looked up at Cecil to reveal their tear-stained face and puffy, bloodstained eyes. Their tears had soaked the top of their blue-and-white striped shirt. They couldn't have been older than 12, but their squarish facial features gave them away as male. "Ja-" he sputtered, "Jack".

"Where are you from?" Cecil asked.

"Rustboro City," Jack sniffed, his breaths becoming longer and more regular.

Cecil cocked an eyebrow. "Hmm… Were you in Unova before you were abducted?"

"I was -*sniff*- on vacation with my parents to Humilau City…" Jack responded

 _"A tourist,"_ thought Cecil, looking down in thought, _"Same as all the other disappearances,"_ He looked back up. "Do you remember what happened before you were abducted?"

Jack closed his eyes, trying to remember. "Um..."

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps down the concrete hallway. "Hold that thought," Cecil whispered, "And keep quiet." Jack silently nodded.

Two orange-haired men dressed just like Cecil's assailant walked into view, turning to face Jack. "Number 43, it's time for your third session," one dryly said before taking a key ring off his belt, unlocking the cell door, and sliding it open with a ear-piercing screech.

"No!" Jack screamed, tears welling up in his eyes again. He pushed himself back with his feet until his back touched the wall. "Please, no! Anything but that!" he screamed, almost psychotically. The two men stepped inside and dragged the crying child out by the shoulders.

Cecil sprung to his feet and rammed his shoulder into the bars of his cell. "What the HELL are you doing?" he yelled, but his words fell on deaf ears. Jack disappeared out of his sight, and his cries for help followed soon after. Cecil stomped the ground in rage. He sighed and sat down on the closest thing to a bed in the cell, a wooden plank mounted to the wall. "Dammit," he muttered, clenching his fists.

His hands fell to his lap, where he noticed a familiar outline in his pocket. "They didn't take my recorder?" he asked. "Kirsty!" he suddenly realized. He quickly stood up and patted his waist down as best as he could with handcuffs on, but his search turned up nothing. "They took her!" he yelled in a fit of rage. Cecil rammed the bars again. "Give her back, you bastards!" he desperately screamed, face flushed with primal anger. No response. He rammed the bars again and again, each time with more force, but to no avail.

The journalist stopped trying after the tenth time; the bars would not budge. "I'm just wasting my energy," he said to himself. "Gotta be ready to take whatever opportunity I can." With that, he laid down on the wooden plank and put his hands behind his head, attempting to find some level of comfort in his predicament.


End file.
